


Angels Are Watching

by kms726



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Papa Winchester, Pre-Series, Wee!Sammy, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 11:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kms726/pseuds/kms726
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took Jessica's death to make me understand my father, and it took his own death to get me to forgive him. Sam POV. Fluffy on the outside, angsty within. Pre-series and Season 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angels Are Watching

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine.

Dean's at school. It's just me and Daddy at the apartment. I know Dean doesn't like school very much. He doesn't say so, but he always walks away from the car real slow every morning and keeps looking back at us until the mean lady in the yellow shiny jacket yells at him to move his keister. Dean's supposed to be a fourth grader, but Daddy had him wait a year to start school after Mommy died. I don't know why—maybe 'cos Dean was too sad to learn anything.

But Dean smiles when he comes home from school every day, and my big brother tells me about all the things he learned in third grade. This week Dean's been teaching me all about the Water Cycle—how the water we have today is the same water the dinosaurs splashed through, how the sun makes water in puddles go up in the sky and we can't even see it till they turns into clouds, and when the clouds get real heavy it rains, and then everything starts all over again. Dean says that when I start kindergarten, I'm already gonna be the smartest kid in the class. I wonder what he's gonna teach me today.

I miss Dean when he's at school. When he's gone, I've gotta play by myself. Daddy's forgotten how to play like kids do. Mostly he just watches me and Dean. Sometimes he plays, too, if he's feeling happy. But lately, Daddy's been real sad. I asked Dean why, but he just shook his head and said, "It's nothing." Then I said, "Fine. If you won't tell me, I'll ask him myself." Then Dean tried to make himself look all big and bossy and said, "No. Just leave him alone, Sammy."

I told Dean I wanted to help make Daddy feel better. Dean just put his hand on my shoulder and said, "I don't think you can, Sammy. You don't remember, but Dad always gets sad this time of year. Just wait it out, okay? He'll be back to his old self soon."

"But why does he always get sad this time of year?" I asked. I was too little to notice before. Dean just put his lips together real tight and looked down at the carpet. "Go play with your toys, Sammy."

Both Daddy and Dean have been acting weird lately—all sad and quiet. I think maybe they're both sick. Maybe that's what Dean meant about Daddy not feeling like himself. Lots of people get sick when it gets colder and the leaves start to fall. But I haven't heard Daddy or Dean sneezing or coughing like I do when I get sick. And Dean can't be too sick if Daddy's sending him to school.

Daddy's reading his newspaper by the window. I'm kneeling next to the couch. I have my drawing board and I'm coloring a picture. I draw my family. I draw Daddy all big and strong. He's wearing his leather jacket, and he has a beard 'cos he hasn't shaved in a long time. I'm in the middle. I didn't wanna be the shortest in the picture, so I draw me standing on a box. But I made the box too big so I'm taller than Dean in the drawing. I don't think Dean will think it's as funny as I do. I draw Dean with spiky hair and holding a gun, 'cos I know Daddy's been teaching him how to shoot. I'm not allowed to touch the guns. Daddy keeps them locked up. I hope I never have to learn how to shoot. I don't know why Daddy thinks Dean has to learn. All I know is guns are scary and they're bad 'cos they can hurt people. I don't wanna hurt people.

I've asked Dean why we have so many guns lots of times, but he always just tells me I ask too many questions. He says the same thing when I ask him why we pour salt over the window sills and doorways everywhere we go. I know it's not normal. But when I ask him about Mommy or all the weird things we do, Dean ever tells me anything, no matter how many times I ask.

I draw the Impala in the background. Coloring our car used so much blank crayon that I only have a little stub left. My crayon keeps breaking 'cos I was pushing too hard.

I think my drawing's really good. I'm about to go show Daddy when I realize that I didn't draw our whole family. Someone's missing. I take my little black crayon and draw a circle for a face. But I don't know what to do next.

I look up at my Daddy. He's still reading his paper. I stay real quiet, 'cos I know he doesn't like to be bothered when he's reading the paper. So instead I stare at Daddy, and wait for him to notice me. I stick out my lip and make my eyes real big, because that always gets Daddy's attention. Sometimes Dean tells me to make this face when he wants something, too. I have to wait forever, but finally Daddy looks up from his newspaper. I see him get a little frowny line between his eyebrows. "Something wrong, buddy?"

"Yeah," I say, still doing what Dean calls my puppy dog face. "I'm having trouble with my drawing."

"What kinda trouble, tiger?" Daddy asks. "Did you lose one of your crayons?"

I shake my head no. "I'm stuck. I don't know how to draw her."

Daddy looks confused. "Draw who, Sammy?"

"Mommy," I say. "Daddy, what did she look like?"

Daddy doesn't say anything. He just stares at me, like he can't believe what I said—like I said a bad word or something. We almost never talk about Mommy. Daddy looks like he's gonna get mad, like Dean gets every time I ask him about Mommy. Dean just tells me to stop asking questions like always, then he won't talk anymore, and he'll want to be by himself. When Dean gets like that, Daddy sounds like Dean. When I went to him yesterday to complain that Dean won't play with me, Daddy told me, "Leave him alone, Sammy. He just needs some time to himself. Then he'll be good to play with you again."

Seems like I'm the only one who doesn't get sad this time of year.

I'm still waiting for Daddy to answer me. He moves his jaw like he's chewing something, but I know he's not. Finally Daddy just gets up and walks right past me, and goes to his room. That's where he goes when he wants to be alone. Just like Dean does. Only me and Dean share a room, so when Dean wants to be my himself, he can't make me stay out unless Daddy says so.

So I did make Daddy mad by asking about Mommy, just like I made Dean mad. I don't know what to do. I don't think Daddy wants me to follow him, or he would have said so. So I stay where I am, next to the couch. Maybe I was bad. Maybe you're not supposed to talk about people after they die. I think about following Daddy anyway, to say I'm sorry, and see if he's okay. But then Daddy comes back out of his room. He doesn't look mad at all, and he's carrying a picture in his hand.

Daddy moves some of my toys aside and sits on the couch. He pats his lap. "C'mere, kiddo." I pull myself up onto the couch and climb onto Daddy's lap. He puts his arm around my tummy, and tucks the top of my head under his chin.

"Sammy," Daddy says, holding up the picture in front of us. "This is your mother."

My heart feels like it's beating all funny. It kind of hurts. I've never seen my Mommy before. She has long blonde hair, and blue eyes. She looks really nice and she's smiling real big. She's leaning against my Daddy, her hand is on the front of his shirt and I can see her shiny wedding ring on her finger. Daddy looks younger in the picture. He doesn't have a beard, and he's wearing his green Marines clothes and a hat. He's smiling just as big as Mommy. I can see the Impala behind them, and a light bluey-green house. If I was going to color the house, I'd probably use my Sea Green or Turquoise Blue crayons. Dean taught me how to read the crayon labels so I'd stop mixing up black and purple.

I stare at Mommy, reach out and touch her face with my fingers like she's really there. I look at her for a long time. I wanna remember exactly what she looked like forever. "She's really pretty, Daddy."

Daddy laughs a little into my neck, real quiet and deep. "Of course, Sammy—where else do you think you boys got all your good looks from?"

I decide not to tell Daddy the things I hear all the Moms say about him when we go to pick Dean up from school. It might embarrass him. But Daddy's right, too. Mommy's face reminds me of Dean a little bit, and I see me, too. But we always get strangers telling us we look like our Daddy—especially Dean. "Mommy looks like she was nice, too."

"You're right again, Sammy," says Daddy. His arm squeezes me a little. "Two for two."

"You look really happy, Daddy," I say. I try to think of a time I've ever seen Daddy look that happy, but I can't.

"I was," said Daddy. His voice sounds funny. "We both were. And we were even happier when you and Dean came along."

It's hard for me to think of before I was born. I wonder where I was. I crane my head and look up at him, and make my eyes go wide. "Where do babies come from?"

"Oh, Sammy," Daddy laughs a little bit again. "I think we'll save that conversation for another day, kiddo."

"Okay," I say quietly. I'll ask Dean later. Maybe he'll know. "Where did you meet Mommy?"

Daddy takes a moment to answer. I wonder if maybe he's forgotten and has to remember. His voice sounds even weirder when he talks, like he has something stuck in his throat. "We met back in Lawrence. She was Mary Campbell then. We were high school sweethearts, both class of '71."

"You got married right after high school?" I ask.

"I would've liked to," Daddy says. "But the Vietnam War was going on at the time. I did my duty to my country and volunteered. I was shipped out before I even finished high school. Your mother waited for me for two years, and she wrote to me almost every day the whole time I was deployed. I think I got more letters than any of the guys in my Battalion put together."

"Wow," I say. I want to see my Mommy's letters to my Daddy. I want to see her handwriting. I can probably even read a lot of them, thanks to Dean. "Do you still have them?"

I can feel Daddy's throw wobble when he swallows. "No, Sammy. They're...they're all gone."

I frown. "Did they burn up in the fire, too?"

I don't need Daddy to answer me, which is good because it doesn't sound like he can. Leaning against his chest, I can tell Daddy's breathing is shaky. I turn my head to the side and Daddy lets me hold the picture of Mommy all by myself. My ear is right over his heart, and it's beating weird, too. And fast. I know what my Daddy doesn't tell me; Mommy's letters are gone, just like all our stuff, all mine and Dean's baby pictures, all Mommy and Daddy's wedding pictures...

One day I bothered Dean until he told me most of our house burnt down the night my Mommy died. Dean didn't have to tell me Mommy was inside. I figured that out all by myself.

"What was Mommy's birthday?" I ask, 'cos I think talking about Mommy being born will make Daddy happier than talking about when she died.

"December 5, 1954," Daddy says. His voice still sounds shaky. "She loved that time of year. Whenever anyone asked her what she wanted for her birthday, from the time she was little, she'd say snow. And she always said her birthday was just far enough away from Christmas."

I think I know what Daddy means. It wouldn't be so fun to have your birthday on Christmas. You'd get half the presents you should get that year and wouldn't feel special 'cos everyone else gets presents, too. And having birthday cake on Christmas just seems weird.

I want to know more about Mommy, since I'm finally getting my questions answered. I wonder why Daddy doesn't mind answering my questions today. "What was her favorite food?"

"Pie," Daddy said. "Any type of pie. But her favorite was cherry."

"Just like Dean!"

"Yep. Just like Dean," Daddy agrees with me. I can hear a little smile in his voice when he says, "Your mother turned your brother into a pie fiend before he was even born. It was the one thing she craved when she was pregnant with him."

"What about with me?"

I can hear a smile in Daddy's voice when he says, "Peanut butter and banana sandwiches."

I gasp and cover my mouth with my hands. "I love those!"

Daddy squeezes me, and says in my ear, "I know, buddy."

I can think of a bazillion more questions I wanna ask about Mommy. I hope my Daddy won't get tired before I have time to ask them all. "What was her favorite animal?"

"Dogs. She always wanted us to get a golden retriever," says Daddy.

I clap my hands together. "Just like me—I love dogs, too! Can we get one, Daddy?"

"Nope. Sorry, sport," says Daddy. I stick my lip out again, and pout. "We move around too much, and a lot of the places we stay don't allow pets. Besides, we still have the same problem we had before: Dean hates dogs."

"I don't know why," I say, thinking of the dogs in the park I've seen with the pig pink floppy tongues and wagging tails. "Maybe they make him sneeze like cats do."

"I think it has something to do with when our next-door-neighbor's dog bit him when he was three," Daddy says. "He hasn't been too fond of them ever since."

"That's too bad," I say, feeling sorry for Dean. I'm glad I've never been bit by a dog, but I don't know if that would stop me from liking them anymore. "Daddy, why does Dean get mad whenever I ask him about Mommy?"

"It's because he misses her a lot, buddy. I do, too," says Daddy. His voice sounds sadder than ever. He sounds like he's old. He's thirty-three, so he's already pretty old, but now Daddy sounds really old. "We miss her so much, that it hurts to talk about her."

"I wish I could remember Mommy," I say. My voice sounds sad to my ears, too. It's hard for me to miss Mommy like Daddy and Dean do, when I can't even remember how she talked or what her laugh sounded like. I only just found out what she looked like, and some of her favorite things. I never got to know Mommy like Dean and Daddy did, and that's what really makes me sad. "What was she like?"

Daddy buries his face in my hair, and holds me tight. "Here's what I want you to remember about your mother, Sammy: she was beautiful. Smart, funny, kind. She had a real gift for taking care of people, especially me and you boys. And most importantly, Sammy, I want you to know that your mother loved you and Dean more than anything in the whole world."

Daddy's voice sounds shaky. He sniffs, and kisses the top of my head before picking me up off his lap and putting me down on the couch next to him. I look up at Daddy. His eyes are red, and he rubs his hands over his face like he's real tired. Daddy smiles at me, but I can see his chin moving up and down, and I know he's trying to pretend he hasn't been crying.

"Now finish your drawing, Sammy." Daddy lets me keep the picture of Mommy. He runs his hand over my hair and down my neck and then stands up. Then Daddy walks away from me. I hear the door to his room close.

I know what Dean would say it he was here: "Dad closed his door, Sammy. That means you've really gotta leave him alone." The Dean in my head is probably right; he has known Daddy twice as long as I have. So I decide to listen to him, even though I feel bad knowing my Daddy is in his room by himself, and still sad. I could make him feel better if he'd just let me try.

Daddy told me to finish my drawing. And now that I know what my Mommy looks like, I can. I think of what Pastor Jim told me, about how when good people die, they go to heaven and get to be angels, and they're very happy there. I think that's where my Mommy is. I asked Dean after we went to Pastor Jim's if he believed in heaven and angels. Dean just laughed and said, "About as much as I believe in Bigfoot." Then I asked him, "So what happens when people die?" Dean just looked real hard at me and said, "They're just gone, Sammy. Forever." That was the one time I can remember thinking my big brother was wrong about something. But it did explain why Dean was so sad about Mommy.

I look at the circle I had drawn for Mommy's head, and decide it's in the wrong place in the picture. I draw another circle higher up, and make it a pretty face with blue eyes, a nose, pink lips and yellow hair. I look back and forth between my drawing and the picture of my Mommy to make sure I'm drawing her right.

I draw Mommy wearing a long white dress. Then I use my yellow crayon again to make a skinny circle over her head. I can't remember what they're called, but all angels have them. I give her wings also, 'cos angels have those, too.

I like my drawing. It looks real good. I think my Daddy and Dean will be able to recognize everybody in it. But I still have my face circle I didn't use down by Daddy. I decide to turn the circle into a Jack-o-lantern, since it was just Halloween.

I can't wait till Dean gets home from school to show somebody my drawing. I walk down the hall to Daddy's room. I don't try to open the door or knock. Instead, I crouch down on my hands and knees. Hoping I'm not bothering him too much, I say, "I finished my drawing, Daddy," deciding he'll probably want to know that. I slide my drawing under the crack in the door so he can see it when he gets the chance. I wait, holding onto the picture of my Mommy tight. I want to keep it forever, if Daddy will let me.

I hear my Daddy's footsteps on the other side of the door. I press my ear to the wood, hear his footsteps stop, and then a real quiet sound of paper crinkling when he picks up my drawing.

"I drew Mommy in heaven," I explain to my Daddy through the door, "She's an angel and she's watching over us."

I'm leaning against the door and all of a sudden it opens fast. I fall forward, but I never hit the ground because my Daddy picks me up and he hugs me real tight, like he's never gonna let me go. Daddy's not even trying to hide it anymore; he cries into my shoulder. His whole body is shaking and he keeps gasping like he can't breathe. I wrap my arms around his neck and hug him, too. I'm confused, because I made my drawing to make Daddy happy, not sad. Heaven's better than just being gone forever. "It's okay, Daddy," I say, patting my Daddy on the back like he does whenever I'm sick or I've had a bad dream, copying what he says. "It's okay. You're gonna be alright."

That just makes Daddy cry harder. I don't know what I'm doing wrong. But I know it's my fault that Daddy's so sad about Mommy. So I'll let him hug me for as long as it takes to make him feel better again.

...

I didn't talk about my mother again for years after that day. But my Dad did let me keep the picture. I took it with me to Stanford and kept it on my dresser. Even though I was still pretty pissed at my Dad for all the crap he put me and Dean through growing up and training us into his little soldiers, that picture of him and my Mom still made me smile every time I looked at it. I'd think back to that day, which I figured out later had been November 2, the fourth anniversary of my mother's death. Over the years, I saw the same thing happen with my Dad and Dean again and again. End of October would roll around, they'd both get quiet and communicate in grunts, withdrawn and moody, and Dad would hit the bottle. Dean too, when he was old enough.

I was too young when my mother died to remember her at all. I can't even say that I miss her; I never knew her. I definitely felt the void growing up, having Dad raise us by himself (with a LOT of help from Dean), and knowing that it just wasn't the way it was meant to be. I regretted what could have been, and felt the loss that way. Apart from that, the saying holds true that you can't miss what you never knew. And maybe that's sadder than anything.

I never said so, but when I was a kid I was always so confused how Dad and Dean could still be so upset about my mother's death, even after so many years. It wasn't like it had just happened and the pain was still fresh. I'd never lost anyone that close to me yet, and I imagined that sort of pain would fade over time. It wasn't until my girlfriend, Jessica, was killed the exact same way my Mom was that I understood the pain my Dad had gone through.

I felt like my heart had been torn out—I felt twisted, and broken, I had this gut-wrenching pit of horror and despair in me, and I was angry. I had got out of the hunting life to be normal-safe. I wanted revenge on what did that to Jess at any cost, and it'd be worth it. I wanted to hunt it down and kill it, even if I got myself killed in the process. I get that side of Dad now, too. I also remember him telling me he would have done anything to protect me from going through what he did. And considering what he did for Dean in the end, I believe him.

My girlfriend, Jessica Moore, was killed on November 2, 2005, on the twenty-second anniversary of my mother's death. Since then, I've learned there was no coincidence there, or in how she died. With each passing year, I've also learnt that recurrent grief is a very real thing. Every year in the days leading up to the anniversary of Jess's death and especially on the day itself, I'm a wreck. I can barely function. I relive everything—I see flashbacks of her blood dripping down on my forehead, seeing Jessica pinned to the ceiling, eviscerated, watching her burst into flames and having Dean run in and drag me out of the fire, kicking and screaming. I remember the flashing lights of the ambulances and firetrucks, and the haunted look in Dean's eyes that reminded me he's already seen this all before. And that pain—it never lessens or backs down. It stays with you. It's the reason I'm still hunting today after swearing off the life, even long after Yellow Eyes is dead and my Mom, Jess, and Dad have all been avenged—cos the son of a bitch killed him, too in the end.

Truth is, I can't stop hunting. I can't live a normal life. And believe me, I've tried. I'm more committed to the family business than I've ever been, just me and Dean. And the Impala, of course, 'cos he'd be pissed if I left her out of the equation. It's just us and the end of the world.

I used to hate my Dad. I didn't understand him at all. I didn't get why he let Mom's death nearly drive him crazy, why he spent almost every waking minute hunting or thinking about hunting, or why he dedicated his life to saving total strangers, risking his own life constantly and leaving his kids alone in crappy motel rooms. I can see now that he was just trying to protect us in his own weird way that might seem counter-productive to a lot people, running straight into the danger instead of away from it. When I was a kid, it didn't register that the bad stuff was coming at us from every direction, anyway. Dad issued preëmptive strikes to protect us. Turns out the demon blood in me painted a target on our whole family. We're all cursed.

I didn't know what we were up against then. But maybe Dad had some idea. I don't know, I never got a chance to ask him. I know I made things as hard for him as possible growing up. I felt I was justified at the time, because he was ruining our lives. I never saw why I had to give up everything so my Dad could go off and save people we'd never even met. Why did it have to be our job? He never let us think or act for ourselves, and I refused to just fall into line like Dean. I knew how to push every button Dad had, and in what sequence. Looking back, I think I was probably a bit of a mouthy brat. I was definitely a contributor to why Dad had to get on blood pressure medication before he was fifty. Now I wish I'd cut the old man some slack. Hunting's hard enough, I can't imagine having two bickering kids in the backseat, too.

Reading Dad's journal, I've realized that in his mind, every evil thing he killed was one less threat out there that could hurt me and Dean, and all the knowledge he gained brought him one step closer to finding out what killed Mom. Along the way, he helped as many people as he could so no other family would have to go through the same hell ours did. And in that regard, I see what Dean always meant growing up—our Dad was a hero. And if I had been in his shoes, I probably would have done the same thing. I see now that he was a broken man, barely holding himself together and trying to raise us, too. Looking back, there's no doubt in my mind he was suffering from PTSD, too. And I see now now that really did do the best he could.

That doesn't mean I would endorse my Dad's style of parenting, and I'm not saying that means me and Dean couldn't do with some serious counseling after how we were raised, but I doubt there's even any psychiatrist out there equipped to deal with our kind of problems. Not that I could get Dean to agree to go to a session, anyway.

Truth is, it took Jessica's death to make me understand my father, and it took his own death to get me to forgive him.

Today is July 19, 2010. My Dad has been dead for four years. Me and Dean have hardly said a word to each other all day. We drove out to this big empty field in the middle of nowhere Wisconsin, where our Dad took us when we were nine and thirteen for some target practice one summer. He lined the gate with beer bottles and empty soda cans. Dean was a dead shot, hitting every one of his targets off the fence. I was still learning how to shoot. I can still remember Dad standing behind me, crouching down with his hands over mine, steadying them as I fired off a round, smiling at me when I blasted a brown beer bottle off the fence post from 20 yards away. Me and Dean were both surprised when he took us to Baskin Robbins afterward, as if he all of a sudden remembered that we were supposed to be kids.

Now, me and Dean are parked in the field, sitting on the hood of the Impala and just staring out at the fence post, not saying a word to each other, but lost in our own thoughts and memories, I guess. We've been out here for hours, slowly drinking our way through a six pack. I look over at Dean whenever I see him smile or shake his head at something he remembers about Dad. Once or twice I see him turn his head away from me and wipe at his face. Then he'll look straight ahead again with a poker face.

I still feel the ache of losing Dad. Today it's stronger than ever, on the anniversary of the day we watched as a team of doctors and nurses failed to revive him. But unlike Dean, I don't care if my brother sees the tears.

I finish the last sip of my beer and set it on the ground. Dean looks like he's close to finishing his, too, so I go to the trunk and grab a couple more. I'm about to close the trunk when I spot Dad's journal poking out of Dean's duffel bag, with some of the aged newspaper clippings slipping out the sides. I set the beers back down and pull the journal out. I slide back the leather strap and pull out all the old newspaper clippings of my Dad's old hunts, so I can tuck them safely back into the front leather jacket underneath all his military service medals. I realize now that I've never pulled out these clippings to read them before, but they're pretty much a chronological road map of half the places we lived growing up. I go to tuck the clippings neatly back in place when I spot something in my Dad's writing sticking out from under the leather flap. "Sammy 11-2-87."

My curiosity gets the better of me and I pull the paper out and unfold it. I immediately feel my throat constrict, and the corners of my eyes sting all over again. It's my drawing, from when I was four, when I drew me, Dean and Dad, the Impala, and Mom as an angel, watching over all of us. I thought it was so good at the time, but now I see we're really all just glorified, misshapen stick people. In no stage of my life have I ever been artistically gifted. I can't believe Dad had kept it all those years...

"Sammy! What's taking so long? Not replacing those beers with your own special brew, are ya?" I hear Dean yell.

"Coming," I say, tucking my drawing and the newspaper clippings back into the front flap. I wipe my face dry with my sleeve, stick Dad's journal back in Dean's bag, grab the beer bottles and close the trunk. I hand Dean his beer as I sit next to him on the hood. He stares at me, and I'm sure my eyes are probably red. Dean doesn't say anything, though, just cracks open both our beers with the ring on his hand and goes back to staring out at the field.

We finish our beers, and Dean looks to our line of empty beer bottles in the grass. "Think that's enough?" he asks.

"Should be," I say. We never talked about it, but we both know the plan.

Dean goes to the trunk for ammo while I gather up the bottles in my arms. We walk out together to the fence, and line the empty beer bottles along the posts. Me and Dean take turns shooting at them, and we each hit our target every time. When every bottle we had was shattered, Dean turned to me and said, "Well, I think I'm road-worthy. How about some ice cream?"

"Yeah," I choke out. My throat so tight I can barely speak. "That sounds good."

Dean sets his mouth into a hard line, but I can see his jaw shaking. He reminds me of Dad that day I drew the picture, when I knew it was all he could do to keep from breaking down, but he was trying to be strong for me. Dean reaches out, claps me on the shoulder. He knows there's no use asking if I'm okay, and the feeling is mutual. "Come on. Let's go."

If life's taught me anything, it's that the pain never really goes away. And I don't want it to. I don't want to forget all the people I've lost. I can still hear my Dad's voice in my head, clear as day: "Pain is good, Sammy. It lets you know you're still alive. It's what keeps you fighting to stay that way—you and everyone you care about."

We get in the car and Dean turns on the radio. "Ramblin Man" is playing. He looks at me like he expects me to say something about Dad and turns it up louder, canceling out any opportunity for a heart-to-heart. I guess some things never change.

THE END


End file.
